waiting
by cedricsowner
Summary: One-shot about Ilsa and Guerrero getting closer to each other. Sorry, but I love this pairing. T-rated for mild sexual references.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_~ dedicated to aloysia piton ~_

Guerrero rummaged around in his holdall and produced a small bottle.

"She doesn't want pain killers."

"An injury of the gluteus maximus muscle is quite painful, dude." He unscrewed the bottle.

"If she had, for once, not talked back and questioned my judgment but done what she had been told, she wouldn't have gotten shot in the butt." Chance, recovering from an injury himself, was not in sympathetic mood. This was the first time Ilsa had been shot during a job. They had been lucky, it was just a graze wound, but the mere idea of how this could have ended…

Guerrero gave him a pointed look, but Chance wasn't willing to let go: "She wants her wishes respected, so be it!"

"How old are you, five?" Guerrero poured two glasses of iced tea, spiking one with the liquid painkiller. Since the fridge in the rundown cabin they had retreated to wasn't working, the tea was lukewarm, but Guerrero was hoping Ilsa's in years of boarding school education fiercely cultivated manners would prevent her from refusing the beverage.

… … …

It was so goddamn hot in this cabin. Her skin was sweaty and sticky, the hot dry air in the room barely breathable and that her injury prevented her from lying on her back didn't help either. Exposing her lower back, Ilsa rolled up her blouse in an attempt to cool herself at least a little. She heard muffled voices and the clinking of glass in the next room, then approaching footsteps. Since Chance had injured his foot, this could only be Guerrero.

Guerrero with glasses, bringing her a drink like a waiter? That probably meant he was trying to slip her something to get her some relief from the pain.

After six months of working together she had definitely been around him long enough to always regard his actions with a certain level of suspicion.

It wasn't heroism that made her refuse to take painkillers. It had been her immense stupidity that had gotten both her and Chance hurt – luckily not too badly, but worse enough to get stuck in a dilapidated cabin in Mexico, waiting for Winston and Ames to bail them out. She wanted to feel the pain because she wanted to punish herself somehow. She had wanted to be a part of the team so badly and she had screwed up.

She deserved it.

So how could she get around drinking whatever potion Guerrero had just mixed? The easiest way was to pretend she was sleeping. She closed her eyes just in time before Guerrero quietly opened the door and sneaked into the room. Too late Ilsa remembered that she was presenting him with a first class view of her exposed lower back and part of her stomach.

Guerrero was surprised to find Ilsa sleeping. The air in the cabin was so stuffy and hot, the pain from the injury had to be quite intense, she couldn't lie on her back which was, as he had learned through his spying, her favorite sleeping position, he'd never thought it possible she'd doze off.

Already on the verge of leaving again he stopped, squinted his eyes and studied her sleeping form a little closer. Ah, Ilsa, to fool Guerrero you've got to get up earlier. As a matter of principle (you don't try to deceive Guerrero, never ever), he sat down on the chair by the shaded window and sipped at the unspiked tea, wondering how long she'd be able to hold up the masquerade.

Ilsa stifled a groan. Instead of leaving again, as she had hoped, Guerrero had taken a seat. Oh damn, now she was stuck in this awkward position, with her bare back in plain sight.

"Relax, Ilsa", she told herself. "It's just your back. The lower back is not an overly sexual body part. Half the population of San Francisco wears shirts that expose it." Then why was the idea of Guerrero staring at this particular patch of skin making her shiver despite the heat?

She had her blouse hitched up, probably because of the temperature in the room. The bronze color of her skin reminded Guerrero of an antique statuette he had …obtained… a couple of years ago. Originally planning to sell it to the highest bidder as soon as possible he had ended up keeping it. Actually it was one of the very few items he had taken with him when leaving New York to join Chance in San Francisco.

The problem was that not merely her back was exposed. Ilsa was sure that, thanks to the loose shorts she was wearing, he could see a tiny, tiny part of her natal cleft, too. As she contemplated the idea, she felt her skin beginning to glow. Oh my, the overdose of adrenaline the gunshot wound had provided her with surely had strange effects.

Guerrero thought of the smooth surface of the figurine that was adorning his bookshelf and couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to run his hands along the slender line of Ilsa's spine and let it rest in the shallow dent above her buttocks.

Ilsa could feel Guerrero's eyes resting on her and no matter how much she attributed this feeling to the injury she had received, the thought of him touching her exposed skin, caressing it, probably exploring the area a little further downwards or upwards, woke up sensations that not only drowned out the stifling heat or the awkwardness of her position, but also the stinging pain of the wound.

None of the two, however enacted on the growing need they both felt, for there was one nagging question in the back of both of their minds.

_What about Chance? _

Chance was watching the two through the door Guerrero had left open and, to his own surprise, felt oddly at peace with the situation. He could see his friend fighting and losing the urge to look at Ilsa, he recognized the desire in his eyes. He could also see Ilsa struggling with the unexpected pleasure of being watched by Guerrero.

"Go ahead", he thought, turning his attention back to his friend. "Touch her."

Guerrero was now openly staring at Ilsa's still seemingly sleeping form.

"Give him a sign, Ilsa", Chance quietly urged. "Let him know it's okay."

For it was okay. More than okay. Seeing these two together filled him with a strange sensation of peace and quiet, in total contrast to the nights of tossing and turning he had spent after kissing Ilsa. No worries about messing things up with her, no worries about driving her away with his crazy antics, no worries about losing her due to his blatant inadequacies.

As a friend he could argue with her, protect her, provoke her, make her angry, laugh with her and keep her safe. And she would not walk out on him because he wasn't able to show how much he loved her.

A fly that had been buzzing around the room for quite some time, decided to choose Ilsa's lower back as its resting place. Her skin started itching where the insect's tiny legs made contact, but what sent shivers down her spine was the idea of Guerrero shooing the animal away. Ilsa imagined his calloused hand hovering above her body, close enough to perceive the heat emanating from it. That the room's temperate was already way past tolerable and her skin damp with sweat didn't matter. She wanted his touch. Now.

Guerrero watched the fly land in exactly the dent he so desperately wished to explore himself. If he shooed the insect away, his fingertips could accidentally brush upon her skin. An innocent gesture, nothing more. Neither she nor Chance, who was watching him intently, would be able to hold that against him.

Nevertheless Guerrero hesitated. He knew himself well enough to strongly suspect that touching Ilsa would not quench but on the contrary fuel his inappropriate desires. He looked up and locked eyes with Chance. To his great surprise he saw nothing but consent. He turned his eyes back to Ilsa and to his even greater surprise she was looking at him, too, all pretense of being asleep having vanished.

Consent, again.

He quietly got up, crossed the few steps to the bed, reached out…

A fist pounding against the entrance door of the cabin brought everything to a screeching halt.

"It's me, don't shoot!" Winston's voice. He swung the door open and came stomping into the cabin with the subtlety of a herd of rhinoceroses. "Come on, let's go! Ames managed to keep the thugs busy, but we definitely shouldn't dawdle." He looked around. "Everything okay?", he asked, seeing his boss and his friends stare at him with expressions a lot less grateful than he had expected.

Yes and no, actually.

But more yes than no.


End file.
